


To Taste Whole Joys

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This poem is not about you, you daft fool."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Taste Whole Joys

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ November 5, 2009.

He meandered around England’s expansive library. He often spent time waiting there for the other nation, and whenever they met to discuss politics, this was the room they occupied. England thought it was a good place to keep America undistracted, since America often spouted how much of a bore books were, especially books from England.   
  
And mostly America found the room rather dull. There were some English novels he really liked—not nearly as great as his own novelists, of course, and like hell he’d ever admit to liking something of England’s—and Shakespeare, once you got past his funny way of talking, wasn’t horrible. The first time he’d been in the library, America had attempted to read England’s old journals and uncover blackmailing material. In the end, the entries were boring and stiff and, depending on how old they were, nearly impossible to read (how the _hell_ did anybody understand Old English?) America was always certain to avoid any entries or journals from the eighteenth century. That was a can of worms he didn’t feel like opening.   
  
The first time he’d been to England’s library, he’d ended up throwing the journals back to their shelves and, when England entered the room, announced that he was the most boring country on the planet.   
  
England’s reaction hadn’t been boring, at least. America still had the bump on the head from the kick to the face to prove it.   
  
At the moment, the other nation was off making tea. (And coffee: after whining from America left England to admit that he probably had some instant coffee somewhere—“not that I bought it for you, obviously. It’s just left over from diplomats coming to visit!”—England could be a jerk all he wanted, so long as America got coffee out of it.)   
  
His fingers curled over the spines of books, knocking away decades, possibly centuries, of dust. It floated in the room, glowing orange when it filtered into the fading light seeping through the threadbare curtains. He coughed a bit as the dust cleared and he squinted at the titles.   
  
“Boring,” he announced, and frowned, searching out books he actually knew and liked. Where the hell had England put his stuff by George Orwell?   
  
He scanned around the library for a long moment, picking at books before putting them back haphazardly. He realized after doing this for a few minutes that perhaps England had put them in some sort of order but, well, it was ruined now so it didn’t matter. He continued along in this manner.   
  
He flipped through the books, searching for any words that caught his eye and found nothing.   
  
It wasn’t until he opened an anthology of poetry (for the sake of finding more things to laugh at England about, only, seriously) that his eyes stopped and bugged out of his head. He read the poem over and over a moment before a slow smile crept across his face and he chuckled.   
  
This was, of course, how England found him.   
  
“I sincerely hope you’ve kept my books in order, America,” the other nation grouched in greeting.  
  
America looked up from his book, grinning cheekily. England paused in his steps, eyes narrowing in frustration and suspicion.   
  
“… What now?”   
  
“Oh nothing, I just found a poem I actually like,” America declared.   
  
One of England’s thick eyebrows skyrocketed and if it were possible, his frown deepened— _his face will freeze like that,_ America thought vaguely—and he set down the tray of tea he’d brought up. He moved over towards him, holding out his hand for the anthology in America’s hands, silently demanding to see what poem could possibly capture America’s attention and didn’t have something to do with a girl from Nantucket.   
  
America refused to relent, holding the book high above his head and grinning widely when England’s hand followed, trying to reach over and realizing that America was just too tall. His frown increased and he glared into America’s face.   
  
“Really, must you act like a—”  
  
“I found a poem about me!”   
  
England closed his eyes and groaned in a long suffering way before he rubbed at his temples, taking a step back away from him. “A poem about you? I don’t keep poems about _you_ , America.”   
  
“No, no! It’s right here!”   
  
“That I sincerely doubt.”   
  
“It’s by some guy named Donne,” America told him, reading the words above his head by tilting the book to meet his eyes.   
  
England deadpanned at him. “John?”   
  
“Yeah, sure,” America said. “Elegy… uh, nineteen.”  
  
England sighed, loudly. “That isn’t about you.”   
  
“Yes it is, it says my name!”  
  
“Learn how to read poetry. Or better yet, the title.”   
  
America squinted at the title. “People refer to countries as female all the time, even when they aren’t.”   
  
“America,” England said, sounding more and more tired as this conversation continued, and perhaps annoyed. But England was always annoyed around him, so America didn’t notice. “I like to think I know more about poetry than you, and this—”  
  
“Well you’re blind if you—”  
  
“Stop interrupting me,” England snapped, looking more and more agitated. “It’s not about you!”  
  
“Look, see, right here! They’re talking about me.”  
  
“This poem is not about you, you daft fool!” England shouted, ripping the anthology from the other nation’s hands and glaring. “  
  
“But it says right here—” America said, flopping his arms over England’s shoulders so he could point at the lines and then read, without proper diction or pause, into England’s ear:  
  
“ _Oh my America, my new found land,  
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,  
My mine of precious stones, my Empery,  
How blessed am I in this discovering thee.”_  
  
When he looked up from the anthology, England’s face was the very epitome of deadpanned. They held one another’s gazes for a long moment before America smirked triumphantly.   
  
“Your poets totally wanted me.”   
  
England bristled, his face igniting into a deep red. “It’s not about you.”  
  
“It says—”  
  
“It’s called metaphor, you uncultured lump of stupidity.”   
  
“It’s totally about me.”   
  
“This was written when you were _just a boy_ and I do so hope you don’t think me to be that perverse as to have poets who would think of defiling a little boy!” England said, face burning red. “This poem is _not_ about sleeping with _you._ ”   
  
America stared at him a moment and England huffed up, face contorting in his rage.   
  
“And if you’re going to recite the poetry you should do it right, damn it all.”   
  
“I was doing it right!”   
  
“You were reading it like you would a McDonald’s menu.”   
  
“Well how am I suppose to read it, then?”   
  
“If you’d close your mouth I’d _show_ you.”   
  
America huffed. “It’s totally about me, though.”  
  
“It is _not._ ”   
  
The bickered in this fashion for a while before England stood up straighter, frowning and looking down at the anthology in his hand before clearing his throat.   
  
“Well then—”  
  
And he started reciting the poem from start to finish, voice soft and moving in just the way it should. America, who didn’t have an appreciative bone in his body, just stared at him and couldn’t deny that maybe it sounded kind of nice. But poetry still sucked.   
  
England recited without any incident until he got to the part America had quoted before. He stepped forward and recited to him, “Oh _my_ America, my new found land…”   
  
He choked on the words then, stumbled as if he’d run out of air to breathe while reciting. The room filtered into premature, strangled silence.   
  
They stood there without words as the recitation trailed off too soon, and England held America’s eyes. Neither could look away, and America realized he was shifting ever so slightly from foot to foot, and he swallowed.   
  
It seemed instantaneous, but suddenly, as if a spell had been broken, the two had to look away from one another.   
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
\- [Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elegy_XIX:_To_His_Mistress_Going_to_Bed) by John Donne. Though Donne was very big into sleeping with people, the personification of the nation across the ocean was probably not one of them.


End file.
